


Gumdrops

by OrionLady



Series: Lament for the Everyman [3]
Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms, Peter Pan (1953), Peter Pan (2003), Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Growing Old, Growing Up, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 01:03:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21045740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionLady/pseuds/OrionLady
Summary: All lost boys need to be found, even Peter.Even an old man in a suit, surrounded by the nursery of his youth.





	Gumdrops

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this work is part of an AU death series I wrote many moons ago. Just a little drabble of how I imagine the Darlings - and Peter - years later.

“Oh! Oh gumdrops! By heavens, who…what have you…?”

“I like…” A cough sounded stifled in the cluttered playroom. “I like gumdrops, Mr.—”

“Check pulse. Yes, well I can’t feel yours at all. And-and what is the other thing nurses always say to do?”

Though the boy’s skin had begun to sag and discolor, healthy pink fading to newspaper graphite, the two eyes staring up at the flustered man still gleamed with childlike energy.

“I’m very pleased to meet ya, Mr. Darling.”

“Yes, oh yes.” Mr. Darling flipped out his tuxedo tails and knelt beside the green-clad boy lying curled on the fluffy carpet of the nursery. “I would say the same to you except I’m not exactly sure who you are. You do look familiar.”

The boy smiled.

An open window revealed a full summer’s moon against Big Ben, and yet the boy seemed to glow faintly.

The glow was fading.

And really, thought Mr. Darling as he examined this creature more with a more careful eye, the boy wasn’t really a boy at all. His hair had turned a spectacular shade of silver, streaked with reddish brown. Tight skin withered. Muscle tone flattened like the slurped bottom of a milkshake.

His green eyes roved over the room and settled on Mr. Darling. “If I had known this was going to be a right fancy affair, I would have dressed better. You look like a penguin.”

“Oh.” Mr. Darling glanced down at himself. “I’m afraid I was to meet my family at the theater. I heard a crash—that can only have been you tumbling through the window—and rushed upstairs.”

Something sparked in the boy’s eyes. “You mean Wendy? Dearest Wendy. I wonder if she still has my kiss…”

Mr. Darling adjusted his glasses and harrumphed. “Wendy? You know my daughter?”

The child looked far away. He smiled, revealing a crooked line of teeth. Dirt covered his clothes and ears. Mr. Darling felt a sudden, very unexpected rush of pity.

“Where are your parents?” he asked in a soft voice.

“I don’t have any. Peter fights on his own. Lives as the days take him, whatever he pleases. Alone. Especially since Tink ran off with that brownie.”

Mr. Darling nodded, though he didn’t understand half of this. “What happened, Peter?”

A puff escaped Peter’s teeth. “The boys had all gone. Finally free and eternally young.”

“I see.”

“I spent a long time thinkin’. Not much fun.”

Mr. Darling shook his head with a solemn nod. “Not always, no.”

“Decided to up and try this growin’ thing. I left my home. I felt it—a sort of tuggin’.”

The older man dipped his hands under Peter’s bony rib cage and pulled him closer. There was no visible injury. Peter could still move.

But the longer Mr. Darling stared at Peter, the more he felt he was looking at a photograph.

One of himself many years ago.

“See…here’s the thing I reckon,” said Peter. “A person’s got no place owning so much space with only hisself to fill it. You follow me?”

Mr. Darling nodded. He placed his hand on Peter’s cheek.

“And eventually that space starts to own you and _then_, well, you have someone looking after you after all. _Parents_, you see. I don’t like to say the ‘p’ word.”

The boy made a face.

“So that’s why I want to follow my boys and be with them,” he said. “They’re not lost anymore.”

Mr. Darling watched the slow yet steady process. Peter retained his youthful body, but he aged in minutes, the whole of his possible life surrounded by dolls and cricket bats. And as he aged, he seemed to Mr. Darling less and less human.

“This could be exciting,” said Mr. Darling, blotting at his forehead. Sweat from the night’s heat beaded once again on his temples. It didn’t on Peter’s. “Age is just a number, they say.”

A desperate note entered his tone.

Peter smiled, eyes half-lidded. “To die…would be an awfully big adventure.”

Mr. Darling flung off his coat to wrap it around Peter’s cold limbs. His old man skin only grew icier.

“What’s it like, Mr. Darling?”

The father gave up and set this twiggy boy down.

Settling back on his heels, Peter’s hand captured between his, Mr. Darling continued to mutter “gumdrops” under his breath.

“What’s that adventure like?” the boy-man repeated.

“I can’t say I’ve gone on that one yet, Peter.”

Peter blinked. His eyes had found a painted elephant on the ceiling. His brow tweaked. “What do you _think_ it’s like?”

Mr. Darling ran his tongue over his lips. “I saw my grandmother…fly away. When I was a very little boy, even younger than you. She seemed only to fall into a deep, pleasant nap.”

“There aren’t any suits in death, I s’pose.”

“No!” Mr. Darling picked up the bat. With a twist, he thrust it to the side. “It is only the beginning of many adventures to come. En garde!”

Peter grinned. His eyes tracked Mr. Darling’s sword fight.

Then he dimmed. His smile dropped. “What about books?”

Mr. Darling turned back. “Books?”

“And tea. There must be a right lovely lady who cooks for all them children.”

“But they have no birthdays. No need for fancy cakes and things.”

“No.” Peter’s eyes flipped to an armchair in the corner. “I don’t suppose so…”

“And there will be pirates! Thieves to thwart and girls to save!” Mr. Darling searched Peter’s face. He felt he was trying to drain the Thames with an eyedropper. “No responsibilities or hurt feelings. Sounds like paradise to me!”

“No pirates,” said Peter, and the older man couldn’t get anything more out of him on the matter.

After a moment, Peter sighed and said, “What about water? For scrubbing one’s hair? And what about flowers to give to pretty girls and to make a bouquet for the lady cook?”

“I don’t—”

“Are there houses?” Peter’s eyes dilated. His breaths came rapid fire. “How can I not want my soil and trees anymore, Mr. Darling? Because I don’t! Shame on me, but I don’t! I came for this growin’ up business, but it looks like the Clock caught up with me.”

Mr. Darling whispered a prayer under his breath and then scooped the boy into his arms. He carried Peter to the armchair. Sitting, the boy pillowed to his chest, Mr. Darling leaned back to see the stars.

This calmed Peter.

“You weren’t made for suits and stock figures, Peter.”

“Neither were you,” said Peter.

Mr. Darling ran a weary hand through his hair. The gel had come unstuck. Loose frays flapped before his spectacles, askew on his nose.

Coat buttons had loosened and popped open, his cummerbund slipped at a crooked angle. He felt at once childish and more himself.

He smiled.

So did Peter.

No more dirt veiled his face. In the span of time since Mr. Darling had glanced once more down at himself, Peter had been cleansed by an invisible hand. His skin gleamed like a newborn’s. The nails were clean. Long, copper lashes whisked against olive skin and boyish fat had melted into the chiseled lines of a teenager. 

Mr. Darling wondered when he had stopped preparing to run for help. The boy-man was dying. But this felt more like witnessing the collapse of a beloved tree or the natural fading of maple leaves into winter.

Inevitable, natural.

“Will you say hello to Wendy for me, sir?”

The boy looked like a hunched little proprietor in Mr. Darling’s coat. His bare feet dangled over the arm rest.

Mr. Darling nodded. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Peter.”

Outside, a harsh wind began. Mr. Darling gasped when it gusted inside, his breath ghosting away in white puffs. The lantern blew out. Frost settled over the window panes.

Mr. Darling held his breath and clutched Peter closer. Rooting through his back pockets, he placed his white gloves over Peter’s hands, for all the good it did.

Though he could not see in the sudden dark, he felt the steady whistle of Peter’s lungs.

“Mr. Darling?”

“Yes, Peter?”

Silence reigned in the frozen cold for five long minutes.

“Who’ll ferry the new lost boys?”

Mr. Darling began to shiver. Peter didn’t.

When Mr. Darling looked down, Peter was visible—only because his skin had gone alabaster and the real glow was gone.

“Maybe you were never the ferry after all,” said Mr. Darling.

“Now that you mention it…” Peter turned his nose into Mr. Darling’s shirt. It felt like an icicle against his skin. “I have these weird…images…in my head. Big ‘uns, like you…all a’smiling at me and playin’ in the grass.”

“Maybe you are one of the lost boys.”

Peter closed his eyes.

“Not anymore,” said Peter. He smiled into Mr. Darling’s shirt. “You found me.”

“Indeed, Master Peter, indeed…”

* * *

“Oh, Papa! Come quickly!”

Mr. Darling opened his eyes, head jerking up off his chest, to get a face full of Michael.

“Wendy’s water just broke! Spilled all over the theater floor and there was a ruckus and John’s taken her over to the infirmary and I imagined the baby kicking to get out of her balloon tummy and…”

Mr. Darling tightened his arms only to find them empty. No lost boy in sight.

Instead, a copper-colored acorn sat amongst the folds of the coat and gloves in his lap.

“Papa, come _on_! I don’t want to miss all the blood!”

Mr. Darling jumped to his feet. He fumbled for his glasses. Between his son yanking on his hand and the coat tangled around his feet, he barely remembered the strange dream fogging his mind.

It was only after his granddaughter had entered the world with a shriek and Mr. Darling was walking home that he halted and gaped up at his house.

“By heavens!” Mr. Darling tipped his hat to crane his head back. “But it’s the dead of January!”

Spring had fallen in a perfect square over the Darling residence. Cherry blossoms and lilies and creeping green things blanketed everything in a crisp, sugary layer. Baby’s breath hung like a row of teeth over the door.

And Mr. Darling laughed, great swells that left his heart racing. “Godspeed, Master Peter!”

* * *

The acorn did not bloom into an oak tree, as Mr. Darling expected. He had planted it with the help of his toddling granddaughter the next summer, beside Nana’s doghouse.

Lily had placed two podgy hands on her hips and asked, “Twee?”

“It will be a tree someday,” Mr. Darling had replied. “Now we wait.”

But it did not grow into a shoot. Mr. Darling pocketed away his disappointment in a tiny crevice of his heart, along with the dear memory of Peter.

One day, when Mr. Darling could no longer get out of bed for his morning coffee and his hair was silver, Wendy came into his room. She set down a mug of coffee and frowned at her father.

“You don’t look afraid, Papa.”

“Is this a poor thing? I’ve lived a happy life. My time has come.”

“No, it’s just…”

“I’m to fly away,” said Mr. Darling with a twinkle in his eye. “To a land with no more suits.”

Wendy turned her face to her chest for a moment. Mr. Darling watched her wipe her eyes and reach for something in her apron pocket.

“It’s the most peculiar thing,” said Wendy. “I looked out the kitchen window this morning and there it was. This was sitting beside the empty doghouse.”

Wendy opened her fingers. A small cake sat cupped between her hands. It was covered in pink icing with words stenciled in white:

‘There _are_ birthdays. Happy first.’

A ring of gumdrops topped the edge of the cake.

**Author's Note:**

> Written March/April 2015.


End file.
